Spite Britannia

 

     Her tunic bathed in the days work,

Has remnants of spittle,

Colours of spat medicine and blood,

      Her eyes – brown and beautiful,

Tired and distant,

Tell a tale of solitude

The horizon doesn’t want to see,

     Accompanied only by

An accusing public,

She keeps her tears private

For the drug addicts and forgotten

Children of tomorrow,

Their personality disorders never

Once mentioned in parliamentary quarters

     Where ‘the vote’ is never won

For the mentally ill.

And she knows she’ll die a death

In time far away from  her home.

 

     Her sisters tunic

Has the stale smell of vomit,

The urine making representations

In conflict with the outpourings of

A Sunday Dinner for the elderly,

     And as she beckons understanding

Arriving home from another shift,

Her brown eyes are filled with tears

For the suppression of active minds upon

The Care Homes of Great Britain,

 

     Today, she fled in horror her soul

From the Sisters of the UK,

Who made sure their portfolio

Took every pill needed to tranquilize

And sedate an affected gait of saliva – drooling

From half open mouths of

World War Two Veterans and a people

Who survived buzz bombs,

 

     Today,

She sat by the bed of

A veteran of The Royal Tank Regiment,

     And soothed him

As he begged for her to give

Him his death long awaited

Since nineteen forty-five,

     Alas, as African it is not within her power.

 

     Today,

My wife from The Dark Continent

Cried a thousand tears

Upon my shoulder for the pain

Our elderly  - thrust in homes endure,

And I cried too – the neglect

The British exhibit upon themselves,

Their fathers, grandfathers sacrifice

Meaning nothing once they are infirm,

And I am wondering as her shoulders

Vibrate a conclusion while tears

Drop to the floor;

     What are the English League Defending,

When we don’t want to look after our own.

 

Michael J Waite 13^th April 2017.